


gay domesticity, with a dash of pining (for flavor)

by polkaprintpjs



Series: old west au [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Historically Plausible, Humanformers, POV Second Person, i have a timeline and sources. do not test me on this, old west au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: When you step inside, the first thing you smell is bread- Cyclonus must have finally decided the sourdough starter was ready. As the door swings shut you toe off your boots and hang your hat on the peg reserved for it, then cross the main room into the tiny kitchen.
Relationships: Tailgate/Whirl
Series: old west au [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893397
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	gay domesticity, with a dash of pining (for flavor)

You stomp at the door, scuffing the day’s dust off your boots. 

You raise a hand in farewell as Rodimus keeps walking, down to Swerve’s without you- headed to meet Drift, probably. Those two are such close friends- it’s honestly a bit surprising, given how little Ratchet cares for Rodimus. 

When you step inside, the first thing you smell is bread- Cyclonus must have finally decided the sourdough starter was ready. As the door swings shut you toe off your boots and hang your hat on the peg reserved for it, then cross the main room into the tiny kitchen. 

Cyclonus isn’t there, but the bread is, covered with cheesecloth and still steaming. Your mouth waters at the thought- warm, fresh bread spread with butter is a monthly treat you adore- but you turn from the table and wash up in the corner.

You dry your hands, but let the water drip from your face down your throat. It’s not chilled, long since warmed in the hot kitchen after being drawn from the cool underground, but still refreshing after a long day. 

You leave the kitchen and change your shirt- you may not mind reeking of sweat and animal, but Tailgate does; and it’s a small enough price to pay, given that you’re generally not stuck with the washing. The door swings open as you finish buttoning up, and when you look over it’s Tailgate. 

She smiles at you from across the room as you shrug the suspenders back on and she pulls off her pretty hat- you and Cyclonus had saved for weeks for it, as a holiday gift. 

“Hello, Whirl. How was the ranch?” 

You hum and hook your thumbs in your waistband- it’s a move that always makes her grin. 

“So manly,” she teases as she unties her apron and carefully folds it on the little shelf you’d put up for it and her hat. 

“It wasn’t too bad,” you say, walking over to take the basket from her. “Did you stop by the store?” 

She shakes her head as the two of you head into the kitchen. 

“Swerve had some leftovers today he sent with me- apparently you’re the only one who likes his pickles eggs. Also a surprise; he made me promise not to look until I was home.” 

You rifle through the basket, setting it on the table, careful not to jostle the bread. She plucks the cloth-wrapped jar of eggs from your hand. 

“Supper’s in a few minutes when Cyclonus gets back. Wait or you’ll spoil it.” 

You pretend to pout a moment before sorting out the rest of the basket’s contents- some biscuits, and the true prize; a few old, withered apples. 

Tailgate dries her face and neatens her hair in the dented silver panel you’d bargained for; it’s not nearly the quality of the mirrors she used to have but it’s what the three of you can afford. 

You line the apples up, one at a time, in the shallow excuse for a cellar that was already dug when you’d begun to pay rent on this place. 

You glance up at the sound of the door, still kneeling on the smooth wood of the floor. You’ll dig it deeper this Sabbath day; none of you are especially religious and you’ve never had the luxury of observing a day of true rest. 

Cyclonus hangs her own bonnet on its peg- she hadn’t especially liked the covering at first, but the New Mexico sun can change anyone’s mind about sufficient protection. 

Tailgate goes to greet her, and you drop your eyes back to the apples. Her dark hair is falling to frame her face, and you can hardly bear to look at the way the strands brush her jaw. She’s been looking for other lodgings, you know, but hadn’t had much luck; you can’t quite decide if you’re glad or disappointed. 

You hear their footsteps as Tailgate leads her back to  you the kitchen. You slide the boards back in place over the food and stand, brushing your knees off. 

“Bread smells just fine,” you say gruffly, eyes on the floor even now. Cyclonus pauses in the doorway a moment before answering. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones gave me some excellent advice.” She hesitates, then, and you glance up, notice the paper-bound package she holds. 

“Here, I had ordered it some time ago.”

You accept the parcel she hands you. You have to put it on the table to untie, your hands refusing the coordination you used to have. 

When the paper is unwrapped, it’s a bolt of fabric, the dark blue you adore. 

“I had thought, since you only have work shirts- for special occasions.” She speaks steadily, but you can hear the slightest shake in her voice, as though afraid you’ll reject the gift. You aren’t certain how she expects you to do so, given that your voice has been stolen entirely by the gift. 

Your scarred fingers brush over the the cloth gently and without thought, you pull them away, suddenly struck by the idea you’ll dirty it. 

You clear your throat and try to order your thoughts enough to offer thanks, but flinch at when your mouth spews instead. 

“I can’t keep this.” 

You hear her breathe sharply behind, and Tailgate’s shocked “ _ Whirl _ .” You force yourself to continue, but can’t make yourself turn to face her. 

“This must’ve been so expensive- you’re looking for a place, you can’t afford this-“ 

When she cuts you off, her voice is cold; you’ve caused offence. 

“Please do not tell me what I can and cannot afford. I wish to give you this as thanks for allowing me to stay. If I am truly an imposition, I will take my leave and room at Mirage’s until I find more permanent lodgings.” 

You turn, then, though you can’t meet her eyes. 

“I apologize,” you say, stiffly, for you’re not so prideful you’ll turn her away for your own misspeaking. “I meant only that this is worth so much- I don’t understand why you’d spend so much on a gift like this.” 

On you, you mean, and you can tell she knows. 

Her eyes are heavy on your face and your face is warm in a way the ever-present sunburn has nothing to do with. 

Tailgate speaks, then, and you’re grateful. 

“Whirl is- not the most well spoken- but Cyclonus, please understand we do want you here. This gift is beautiful- the blue will suit her well.” 

You wish, for but a moment, that Tailgate hadn’t intervened- the fabric is far too pretty to waste on a face like yours. Cyclonus glances between the two of you, seeking to be sure of Tailgate’s words. 

You try again. 

“It’s- beautiful, Cyclonus. If you feel that strongly, I’d be pleased to have it.” 

Her smile is small and you wish it’d last longer. 

“I do.” 

You manage a nod, and Tailgate claps her hands together and goes to examine the cloth. Cyclonus clears her throat quietly. 

“I will start it tonight while Tailgate reads, if you have no objections to my using an old shirt as a pattern.” 

You look her in the eye, for a moment only, but it’s enough. 

“None at all, if you’re willing.” 

Tailgate interrupts the both of you, and you’re glad of it. 

“Let’s eat first, so we needn’t use too many candles.” 

* * *

It’s near dark by the time the three of you are settled in the main room, Tailgate and Cyclonus settled on their pallets- you and Tailgate had shared thus far, but had again used your own when Cyclonus came to stay; neither of you could forget the propriety you’d been raised with. 

You knelt on the floor and set to scrubbing with the steel wool; sanding the floors was a project that spanned months’ worth of evenings. 

Cyclonus spreads your old shirt, more holes than fabric, out on the floor and starts carefully removing the stitching. Tailgate opens the book, a dime novel her family’d shipped over called  _ Black Bess: The Knight of the Road _ . She begins to read, her voice clear and soft. 

“Chapter Seven: Fog on the King’s Road.” 

You listen to the tale of horse theft and highway robbery as you work and the sun dips low beneath the horizon. Cyclonus rises and lights the lantern and a few candles to place near where you all sit, and brings Tailgate water when her voice grows hoarse. 

Like this, you think distantly, you could spend years content. Your remaining eye is too blurry to make out their features in the dim light, but you don’t need to see to sand; the candlelight is for Cyclonus and Tailgate’s benefits alone. 

When the seventh and eighth chapters are read, you drop the steel wool gratefully; it’s been a day of heavy work already and your shoulders protest the repetitive motion nearly as much as your hands protest holding anything. Cyclonus carefully gathers her work and puts it aside, into the crate dedicated for such projects, while Tailgate puts away the book and begins to tidy the candles from the floor. 

The lantern she leaves, so you’ll all have light to change by; you hurry to do so, fumbling with the buttons- your hands won’t cooperate, starting to cramp after the day’s labor. Tailgate helps you, and you stare at the wall, glad of the lantern’s flickering, so Cyclonus can’t see your flush. 

You don’t watch as they undress and lay on their pallets, instead checking the door is securely locked with the leather strap. You turn down the lantern before hanging it on its peg, safety steps ingrained after Magnus’s last speech about the dangers of fire. 

“Ready?” 

Tailgate hums, her voice a bit scratchy- you’ll make her tea in the morning before you and Cyclonus walk to the Jones Ranch- but it’s Cyclonus who answers. 

“Of course.” 

You blow out the tiny flame. 

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @megatronismegagone  
> if u want the rundown so far its all (mostly) on my blog under #old west au


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